


Fifteen

by witchway



Series: The Thing That Lives Under The Bed [3]
Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demon!Tony, Dracula - Freeform, Eventual Happy Ending, Happy Ending, Kid Peter Parker, Kissing, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Platonic Cuddling, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Vampires, lots and lots of kissing, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchway/pseuds/witchway
Summary: WARNING: The Thing That Lives Under The Bed is, overall, a "Snugglefic."It is about things that you were taught your whole life were normal.  Remember, two centuries ago, people just like you considered "normal" things "normal."  You might disagree.This is a story about a young boy and an ancient spirit. About solitude.  About knowledge.But overall, this is the story is about growing.In 1985 the world was a different place than the world you live in now. The world grew. You might not realize exactly how much.In 1985, Peter is growing too.  At fifteen, things are starting to look a little... different.And snuggling. Remember, The Thing That Lives Under The Bed is about snuggling.  You haven't SEEN any snuggling yet, but dear reader, the snuggling has arrived.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Peter Parker
Series: The Thing That Lives Under The Bed [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823884
Comments: 36
Kudos: 159





	1. Stay.  Promise.  Dream.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrstarksbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstarksbaby/gifts).



> This has ALL been due to the art of one person -- the creator of this moodboard -- known as @starker-sorbet on Tumblr.
> 
> Thank you for your art. Sorry about the novel. There was a quarantine on and I was left unsupervised.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his 15th year, Peter finally got to meet his special friend face to face.
> 
> The results were... informative. And snuggly.

**Stay. Promise. Dream.**

“ _No_ Tony. I don’t want to.”

“Sleep… dream…” The voice under the bed spoke simply tonight, his endless list of synonyms abandoned for one-syllable words, whispered like eerie winds. “Sleeeeeeeep.” In many ways Peter preferred Tony’s old way of speaking. His ghostly voice sometimes gave Peter the shivers, especially when the house was empty. But it was hard to be _afraid_ of Tony, especially when getting Tony to talk _at_ _all_ was such an effort.

Only now Tony was whispering words Peter didn’t want to hear. 

“Dreeeeeeam” it breathed in low, throaty tones. The voice sounded like the urgent winds before the thunderstorm. The winds from the moor that haunted Wuthering Heights must have sounded just like this.

“Sleeeeeeep… dreeeeeeeam” it urged in words tender and gentle and cruel. 

“ **No** . _Please_ Tony, don’t make me,” whispered Peter, despairing. His face lay against the cold wood floor as he peered into the darkness under his bed. He felt like crying. He had cried against his pillow in his bed many times in this room, he didn’t want to cry while lying on the floor. 

Naming the thing that lived under his bed had been Peter’s idea. He had taken out his grandfather’s big dictionary and started reading through the list of boys' names to the voice under the bed (not that the voice was there, it was daylight when he had done it.) Aiden, Abel, Adam, Ambrose, Angel, Angelo, Anthony… he had read, and the voice under the bed had agreed.

At least, it had agreed in the pretend-conversation Peter was having in his head. He had far more pretend-conversations with his invisible friend than real ones. But when the darkness fell and the voice WAS back, Peter called it “Anthony” and there was no objection.

Lying on the cold hard floor was Peter’s idea, too. Why he had never thought of it before he couldn’t imagine. Maybe because, on the bed, he always had the option of jumping under the covers when he was afraid. But he wasn’t afraid of the thing that lived under his bed anymore. In the darkness he lay very close to his bed, looking into the dark space that was where Anthony lived. 

Down here, it was _so_ much easier to hear.

And if Peter hadn’t been down here, he would never have believed his ears. Tonight Anthony was telling him things that couldn’t possibly be true. Slowly, carefully, word by word, Anthony had explained it. Through a great deal of patient questions and continuous guessing Peter had pieced it together.

Anthony couldn’t come out from under the bed because Anthony was weak. If Anthony could eat, he could be strong. If he was strong, he could leave the darkness. If he was strong, he could communicate more easily with Peter. The more Peter understood, the more excited he became. _Feed_ Anthony? He’d be delighted! But what did Tony _eat_? Peter was more than happy to bring leftovers and slide them under the bed. Particularly those leftovers he didn’t want to see at dinner again the next day.

But what the only answer Tony would give to “what do you want to eat?” made no sense.

“Light,” he said, over and over again.

“But you don’t _like_ light, Peter complained, frustrated. The discovery that Tony would only talk to him in the complete darkness had been such a moment of joy for him, and now Tony was arguing the opposite.

“Light… eat… _light_ …”

“But you said you didn’t like the light.”

“Peter’s… light…”

“But I don’t _make_ light. I _told_ you. I’m a person, not a sun.”

“…sun… what is?”

“The sun is a sphere of hot plasma that is the most important source of energy on Earth. Our sun is a G-type main-sequence star and is called a yellow dwarf star, but that’s not completely accurate…” Peter happily explained the sun to Anthony, the same way he explained everything to Anthony. After asking Anthony so many endless questions, it was a wonderful thing when Tony asked _him_ questions. 

And Tony did. Ask questions. Sometimes about things Peter was sure Tony already knew about (surely Tony knew that the sun since he spent so much time hiding away from it) but Peter was growing to understand that Tony _needed_ Peter’s lengthy explanations. 

Peter’s explanations exposed Tony to different words, and the different words were what Tony sometimes needed. Peter was happy to oblige. Searching for different words was a fun game Peter played when he was bored. And he didn’t mind explaining the same things to Tony over and over again in different ways.

Since Peter had learned how to shut out the streetlights with the blankets Tony had begun to ask so many questions, although they were almost always the same. A word followed with the whispered “…what Is?” Peter’s only regret was that in all the conversations he had with Tony, he was doing most of the talking. 

“...New York… what is?”

“...magazine… what is?”

“..environment… what is?”

Peter explained, leading Tony to ask more questions about the words he used to explain. Which, sometimes, sounded a lot like Peter talking to himself. He could ask Tony questions, but Tony’s _answers_ only led to more questions for _him_. 

But Peter’s answers always led to _more_ questions, leading to conversations that lasted long into the night. Peter treasured those conversations.

Sadly, this _particular_ conversation was making Peter very unhappy. 

Peter didn’t like being told to ‘go to sleep.’

He _was_ sleepy of course, it was nearly midnight. But that didn’t stop him from pouting and whining when Anthony had made his request.

“I don’t _want_ to sleep and dream. I _try_ to dream about you Anthony, I do, but it just doesn’t work. You start to talk to me in my dream but then in just turns into something stupid and random and when I wake up I don’t know what was real and what was just stupid. Please don’t make me. Just _tell_ me. What do you eat? What can I feed you to make you stronger?”

“Light…Peter’s…light…”

“But I can’t _make_ light. The sun makes light through a nuclear reaction. It’s called fusion. As atoms of hydrogen combine to form helium, that produces light…”

“Sleep. Dream.”

Peter closed his eyes in frustration. 

But that seemed counterproductive, so he _opened_ his eyes in frustration.

“When I dream _I can’t hear you,_ Tony. I _start_ to hear you but it stops making sense and then it’s just a regular stupid dream…”

“…Peter…”

Peter’s heart gave a jolt when he saw something moving under the bed. Five long slender shadows, darker than the floorboards. Darker than the night. Reaching for him.

Peter smiled.

It was only Anthony’s hand, sly dark slender fingers reaching, just like he had seen before. He lifted his head and smiled even more when he saw Tony’s wrist as well. And then his arm! A shiver went down Peter’s spine. He had never seen so much of Tony’s body (except in his dreams.)

“…touch…”

“I can’t touch you silly,” Peter said, even as his fingers crept closer. He smiled lovingly at the hand and no longer felt like pouting. “When I touch you, you disappear.”

“ _Touch_ …”

“Can you do this because you’re getting stronger? Will you tell me how you’re getting stronger?”

“Touch.” Tony whispered, and Peter did.

Aunt May’s hands were gnarled and delicate and dry. Uncle Ben’s hands were strong but often absent. Peter knew the term “touch-starved” because he had read it in a magazine. It made him long for his school in New York when the chess club would nudge and jostle and wrestle and everyone was still friends. He missed his secret handshake with Ned.

Tony’s hands were solid and strong and warm and almost vibrating with power and when the dark fingers closed firmly around his fingers Peter saw the first light at the end of the tunnel.

Peter grinned from ear to ear. “Tony, you’ve _never_ been able to do this before…”

“Sleep. Dream.”

And just like that, Peter felt like crying again. It was like running up to hug your friend only to be quietly asked to go away. 

Too sad to argue, Peter obeyed.

“I’ll do it,” he groused, holding onto the hand tight. “ _If_ you promise not to leave.”

“Stay… promise… dream…”

It wasn’t easy, falling asleep this way, not when his heart had just been pounding moments before. Not when he was laying on the cold hard floor. But he knew Tony was _trying_ to talk to him, trying to explain this new idea about feeding and getting stronger. But as Peter dozed off, his fingers intertwining with his new friend, he had very little hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some AO3 authors do not care for constructive criticism. Constructive criticism must be requested.
> 
> I HOWEVER FEED ON IT THE WAY A DEMON FEEDS ON LIGHT so please, PLEASE, feed me your questions, your confusion, and your constructive crit -- I am constantly trying to improve my work.


	2. Be Brave (I Am The Master Here)

**Be Brave**

**(I Am The Master Here)**

He recognized the castle immediately, the vast empty courtyard, the broken battlements that made a jagged line against the night sky. The tall black windows completely devoid of light. The sight made Peter smile. Of course Tony would be happy _here_.

He didn’t take Tony’s hand as they walked underneath the decrepit portcullis and up the steep stone pathway. Tony was currently seven feet tall with arms that stretched almost to his knees. But Peter wasn’t afraid. He cheerfully looked everywhere else as he explained the nuclear fusion of the sun again. Tony would be more pleasant to look at soon enough.

“The sun could fit millions of Earths inside it, but is only a medium size star. That means there are suns so much bigger than ours that exist. _So_ much bigger…”

“Do masters now call the spheres ‘stars?’”

“What are ‘the spheres?’”

“The sun, the moon, the errant stars that are wandering planets…”

“No, no, the sun _is_ a star. The planets are not stars, and the moon isn’t either, the moon is a moon. The moon is really just a rock…”

And so they talked as they walked. The wind blew cold through the narrow hallways and vast empty spaces. The shadows were many. Peter explained the difference between sunlight and moonlight, all while sneaking looks at Tony’s hand until it looked human enough to take into his. Then he continued to speak, sneaking looks up at Tony’s face.

Sometimes they traveled through corridors so narrow they became pitch black tunnels, descending into nothingness. But Peter followed Tony willingly, holding tightly onto his warm hand, until the tunnel opened up into gloomy courtyards that showed a starlit sky.

“The learned men I told you of, the masters and the doctors, they spoke of the spheres that behaved as elements. ‘As are the elements, such are the spheres’ was the wisdom at the masters. The spheres, it was told, were mutually folded in each other’s orb, moving jointly upon one axletree. And that was the world’s wide pole.” 

“Oh no, no. The Earth spins on its axis, yes, only the moon moves with it…”

And so on and so forth. Hand in hand they wandered through from courtyard to courtyard, until all the clouds had dissipated, and the moonlight lit up their faces. Peter looked up into his friend’s face, and Tony smiled down at him. He looked very much like Anthony again. His face was thin and drawn, but still handsome. The lines of his face made sharp angles. His cheekbones. His eyebrows. It gave him a sinister look, but Peter didn’t mind. After all, the man _was_ made of shadows. 

They spent a great deal of time in the courtyard, looking up at the sky and comparing names for the constellations they could see. 

Peter balked only once, when Tony tried to lead him out of the open air and back into an inky black passageway that led into the depths of the castle.

“No, _wait_ , this is a bad idea. Let’s stay here and look at stars. Nothing scary will happen here.”

“No thing shall fright thee in there, sweet one. I am the master here.”

“But this dream is lasting a lot longer than it ever has before,” Peter said, suddenly feeling panicky. “It _has_ to fade soon, and then I won’t be talking to _you_ anymore…”

But Tony interrupted. “No,” he said sternly, startling Peter a bit. Tony's grip on his hand was too firm to break. “I am stronger now. Hold to me _._ I must needs keep you close. Come, we can _speak_ here. Stay with me.”

“But _what_ makes you stronger?” Peter pleaded. “I’m trying to find the pattern but I just can’t see it.”

“‘Tis your light, Peter. 'Tis no better word,” Tony whispered. His face was pained and his eyes were urgent. “But fear not, I can _show_ you. Come inward. Come. Tell me more about the sun and the moon.”

Peter obeyed and allowed Tony to pull him into the blackness.

When Tony’s eyes looked like that, it was hard _not_ to obey.

Peter did his best to describe gravitational pulls as he followed Tony's irresistible draw inward. His words were the only sound in that utter darkness, and not much comfort. He kept his eyes shut tight. Not that it mattered, he was in a lightless place either way. It was not a nice place at all. The cold was piercing him to the bone. 

But in time they came out of the coffin-like passage and into the center. It was a freer, open space and their voices echoing in large abandoned rooms. There were arches that thrust into the shadows, but this place was also full of windows that let in moonlight. It was still cold there, but now Tony’s hand was warm. 

Tony began explaining what he called the “double motion of planets” as he led Peter up a series of staircases. “They wrote that Saturn, Mars and Jupiter were but erring stars, differing in their motion upon the poles of the zodiac,” he was explaining as they passed several vast windows arching in one stone wall, looking out into nothingness. Peter knew that the castle was set upon a terrific precipice, and that if he were to look out of those windows he’d be looking down at a sea of green, that was the Transylvanian forest. 

He was just about to ask Tony _how_ he knew that when they stopped suddenly before an ornate wooden door.

“Will you be brave for me, Master Peter?” Tony whispered, stroking Peter’s face with a fingertip. Peter shivered. Tony had never touched his face before. With a touch the carved door swung open and Tony led him into an opulent bedroom.

Peter gasped and smiled and wondered at the candlelit room. (He noticed that Tony didn’t shrink away from the flickering candlelight. Then again, this _was_ a dream.) He released Tony’s hand and wandered at the room in wonder. The walls were covered with lavish tapestries and hangings of beautiful fabric, but more even more impressive were the dozens upon dozens of red and white roses in vases set upon heavy wooden chests, sometimes laying with long stems against black mahogany tables. Peter had never seen so many flowers in one place. The white roses, and the white of the candles, matched the creamy white curtains that draped around the four-poster bed.

“Do the masters and the doctors say that the sun is older than the moon? I often thought it so. Mayhap the sun is a fiery, passionate lover, but the moon is young, and shy, and pulls away from his touch. If only the moon would wait, would be brave. The most fiery lover can be gentle, if he is asked to be…”

“No!” Peter giggled. “They aren’t… lo… they aren’t _that_ ,” he stuttered, too shy to say the word “lovers.” Especially here. Especially in Tony’s bedroom. Especially two feet away from Tony’s _bed_. Suddenly his face grew warm. He was terribly disappointed. He didn’t want to be shy, to be tongue-tied, around his new friend. 

And he wouldn’t be. This was a dream darn it, and since he knew it was a dream, he would be brave.

That’s what he told himself as Tony took him by the hand and led him to the cream-curtained bed.


	3. Under The Dream-Covers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This amazing artwork is done by the inimitable von_gelmini who loves this castle almost as much as I do.
> 
> Please enjoy this snugglefic.

**Under The Dream-Covers**

But when Tony sat upon the bed Peter pulled back a little, startled by a shiver of fear. He hadn’t noticed, up until that moment, what his friend had been wearing, and found himself unnerved at the sight. There was nothing frightening about the shirt itself, it was ivory white, the same color as the candles (the same color as the bedcover) with billowing sleeves and a frilly collar that was currently open, exposing his pale white chest. Peter couldn’t say why he was suddenly afraid. Only that Tony had reminded him of something just now, something that had made him very nervous…

“They all have one motion; all jointly move from east to west in twenty-four hours upon the poles of the world. Or so the wise men said. But the wisest of men spoke in freshmen’s suppositions – none were so wise as Master Peter. Lie beside me and tell me more. Hath every sphere a dominion? An _intelligentia?”_

Peter stood, silently. This was a _bad_ dream, only Peter couldn’t remember exactly why. 

He looked down at the bed. The covers were creamy white, and heavy. Would he be safe under dream-covers? But _that_ wasn’t right. This wasn’t even a scary dream.

Something about the shirt that Tony was wearing. Something about the windows in the stone wall that looked out onto the nightsky, because this castle was on a terrible precipice, and if he were to look out of those windows he’d be looking down at a sea of green tree tops with silver threads where the rivers ran through the forest… they ran across the forest… it was **_across the_ _forest_** that was the problem, he was sure of it.

“Be brave, Peter.” Tony was whispered again. And when Peter looked into Tony’s dark eyes, he knew that he could.

Or at least he would try.

He wasn’t sure he would succeed, but when he looked into Tony’s eyes, he also knew he couldn’t say ‘no.’

But it didn’t comfort him at all to find, as he toed off his shoes before climbing onto the bed, that he was wearing the exact same outfit as Tony; tight black pants and a billowing white shirt and a collar that was opening up, exposing his throat, his shoulder, his chest. He was _trying_ to remember why that was a bad thing even as Tony pulled him into strong, solid arms. He leaned his head to rest on Tony’s shoulder, taking a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Tony smelled of burned incense and warm earth. He tried to be brave.

Then Anthony slipped one hand into the open collar of his shirt and Peter gasped in surprise.

“No! This is a _bad_ dream! We’re in _Transylvania_ ! This is _Castle Dracula_ , Anthony _look_!” He grabbed the man by shoulders in terror, his heart pounding in his chest, his head jerking around frantically, taking it all in. Oh course… it was all so obvious. The tall black windows. The battlements, jagged against the sky. The many shadows. 

“I _know_ this dream, I’ve had this dream before, this is going turn into a nightmare and I’m going to lose you.” He buried his head in Tony’s embrace, afraid to look around the room anymore, knowing he would see something terrible. Somewhere very close he could feel it, the much younger boy that had stayed up passed his bedtime reading that book until VERY late at night alone in his house, afraid to shut the book, afraid to close his eyes, afraid to move from that spot until Aunt May and Uncle Ben returned.

But Tony’s arms were solid and unmoving. He held Peter against chest and murmured to him, stroking his hair and arguing with him gently. “Hold to me Peter. Hold fast. Hold close. Stay with me. I conjure Master Peter and do not release him. Fear not, Master Peter, but be resolute. By the uttermost magic I bind you to me…” 

“But that’s not real,” Peter scolded. “That’s not even _in_ Dracula. Even if it were real in this dream it won’t stay real for long. Because dreams turn into… I _told_ you Tony…”

“Look to me, look to me,” Tony crooned, stroking Peter’s back with strong hands, finally resting his head against Peter’s hair, shushing him, almost rocking him, until he allowed himself to be gentled. Peter leaned into the warm embrace. It was a wonderful feeling. Even if this moment faded into something else, it was a moment he would remember.

“Whatever you want to tell me, tell me quick. I can’t make it last. Please Tony.”

Tony lay his mouth against Peter’s ear, scraping his beard across Peter’s cheek. Peter shivered at the touch.

“You need not fear. I am the master of this place. We can speak, dispute, have discourse one with another _here_. We spoke so little in the dreams when you first called unto me, for then I was so weak, and you were a magician unskilled. Do you not see that we are stronger now?”

“I’m not a magician at all,” Peter whispered. He wiggled a little and Tony loosened his arm a little, looking down into Peter’s face. 

“But you are the Master Doctor, master of all arts, the one who named me. Who feeds me his light, but does not know of it. I will instruct you now.”

He guided Peter into a sitting position (Peter had been laying back in Tony’s arm, looking up at his face, thinking that he was wrong, this was in fact the best dream in the world) and looked closely into his face.

“Do you fear?”

Peter thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“I must feed of your light. ‘Light’ is not a fit word. Likewise is not ‘feed’ the fit word.” Gently he scraped the pad of his thumb across Peter’s lips. “There are no fit words.” 

“But I can show you…”

Gently Tony slipped a hand into Peter’s open-necked shirt and moved it aside and, just as gently, pulled Peter against his chest. Breathing against Peter’s throat for just an instant, he covered the pulsing vein with his mouth and began to suck. Peter’s heart pounded against Tony’s chest. He tried to remember to breathe.

Soon then were laying together on the bed, Tony moaning and stroking Peter’s back with strong hands. His back, his waist, sometimes down the sides of his legs. Peter clung to him, trying not to moan as well. Sometimes he would push Tony away and Tony would always comply, (eventually) laying back against the white pillow, panting. At those times Peter’s hand would fly to his shoulder to look for blood, but he never found it. Sometimes Tony’s mouth seemed to be wine-stained, sometimes it seemed to Peter that there were wine-stains too, upon his shirt, upon his fingertips, but at other times there were none. Sometimes Peter’s head spun, sometimes he feared he would fall asleep (but he _was_ asleep. Could he fall asleep in a dream?) Then Tony would move toward him again, whimpering, nuzzling against his cheek, his nose, wordlessly asking for more. And every time, Peter obeyed.

Finally Tony pulled away, sated. He stroked Peter’s hair and thanked him repeatedly, touching their foreheads together and caressing his face.

“What that… have you… fed?”

“After a fashion. It is a dream of feeding. It gives me nourishment. In your bedroom, when night falls on the morrow, you will feed me again. You will make me strong.”

“And is this…” once again Peter reached up to finger the wet place on his neck, surprised once again that there was no wound there. “Is that ‘light?’”

“Your light made me strong enough to speak,” he said, tracing one finger over Peter’s lips. “Your light made me strong enough to touch your dreams. Your light gave me form enough to touch you. When you lay on your bed and wept tears, I fed from your loneliness. When you read your books that made you laugh, I fed from your joy.”

“But… that’s not ‘light.’ Loneliness and joy aren’t light. Those are feelings.”

“And when you sit on your bed and read to learn? And when you make your scholars drawings of plans and schemes of clever instruments? What is the fit word for this?”

“Is it… curiosity? Or… wait…” Peter pulled away from Tony’s touch enough to think. He turned his head and considered the old-fashioned words that he knew.

“Is it… passions?” 

He moved back closer, please with himself. Tony seemed pleased too. He took Peter’s hands and wove their fingers as he spoke.

“If you were a painter, I would feed upon your light when your landscape was complete. If you did compose, I would feed upon your light as the ink dried upon your opus. If you were a sculptor, you would feed me when the statue stood completed in your studio. Not before, for fear you would never finish it.”

“But you _learn_ , Peter. Daily. Hourly. You never finish. And you _question_ . Even your questions feed me. I’ve _never_ tasted the like.” 

Peter lowered his eyes and tried not to grin. It wasn’t easy. He was sometimes praised for being ‘smart’ but he wasn’t often praised for _learning_ constantly (and he certainly was NOT praised for constantly asking questions.) He hid his smile by moving his forehead closer to Tony’s chin.

“If… wait… if you are old enough to remember when scientists thought the sun revolved around the Earth, instead of the other way around… that was before the 1600’s. How old _are_ you, Tony?”

Tony moved away enough to look into Peter’s eyes. He traced gentle fingers across his jaw, his lips, his chin. Peter moved his fingers to touch the line of Tony’s beard, but wasn’t brave enough to do more.

Then Tony pulled away completely and tucked one arm under his head, staring at the top of the canopy bed, contemplating. Finally he spoke.

“I was first sent away from the monastery and tasked to vex the stylite Simeon the Elder before I killed him. I believe. Do you know the date of the death of Simeon the Elder?”

“No, but I can look it up in the library.”

“But here are spirits far older than I. I knew of a demon tasked by Eratosthenes to take messages Alexandria to Syene. He was a great deal older. It is hard to tell. When I am not fed I must sleep. When I sleep I forget.”

He turned back to Peter and gathered him up in his arms again. “You are the Scholar Peter, you will consult this vast library you travel to, the one so far away from your dwelling place…”

Peter snuggled in and described the tiny, disappointing library that he visited weekly in Devil’s Holler, and how he could only get his Uncle Bed to drive him to the slightly superior library in the next town over, and how all of them paled in comparison to the libraries he visited in New York City. As he spoke Tony’s hands began a delicious journey up and down his back, the back to his waist, then back to his back again. 

Once, that hand rested in the small of his waist for a moment, then began moving further downward, causing Peter to gasp and jump a little. He couldn’t help it. He reached for the hand and squeezed it in apology.

Embarrassed, he started talking again. “But everything is better in New York City. The schools are better. The museums are better. There are more movie theaters. There aren’t _any_ science museums here at all…” and so on.

They fell into silence and Peter felt himself dozing. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. It made him feel that the dream was changing. He was hearing strange voices intoning solemn words outside the room. He jolted awake and looked up at Tony, to see if he had spoken, but Tony only smiled. Then his eyes drifted closed again.

When he jolted awake the second time Tony pulled him closer, rubbing his back through his shirt and calling his name. Peter’s hand flew to his neck… he had dreamed he was bleeding and staining the sheets… then grinned in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. I keep thinking you really bit me.”

Tony smiled and took one hand in his. “Wherefore? I did not bite you the first time I fed from you,” he said with a wicked grin, lowering his mouth to Peter’s wrist and sucking gently at the pulse.

Peter was confused. “You… what?”

Tony moved a little and fished for Peter’s left hand, that had been laying between them. He pulled it gently to his face and touched Peter’s fourth finger.

“Do you know what this is, my scholar?”

“That’s my ring finger… _Anthony_ …” Peter scolded, scandalized when Tony fit the entire finger into his mouth and sucked on it vigorously, finally pulling it away from his lips in a gesture that felt slightly obscene. 

“That finger carries the vein that leads directly to your heart, a perfect place to feed.”

“But it doesn’t really have a vein that… eww gross….” Peter giggled as Tony went down on his last two fingers, sucking on them. It felt ridiculous (but it felt something else, too. Something Peter didn’t really have a word for.) 

“And yet I can feed this way. I need not hurt you. I did not hurt you when you fed me sorrow the first time, when Wagner did not come to your celebration.”

“What… what?” Peter pulled his hands away and sat up suddenly. “What are you talking about?”

Tony lay his head back on the white pillow and looked up sadly. “When your schoolfellow agreed to come to your celebration. You came to your room and told me all about the joy of it. But then the message came upon the telephone that he would not attend. His father conveyed the message to your Uncle. You wished to contact your other schoolmate in New York City in consolation, but your Uncle angered you when he said the cost was too dear. You came to your bed and cried, and then you came to the floor to speak to me. You gave me your tears. Then you gave me your hand,” he touched Peter’s left hand, but didn’t take it. 

“Tony that doesn’t… no. That doesn’t make sense. I don’t know anyone named Wagner.”

Tony closed his eyes and sighed. Peter was suddenly worried and reached for him, and soon he had Tony’s head laying against his chest, and he was the one with his face nuzzling Tony’s hair. Tony wrapped strong arms around his back and held him close.

“Forgive me Master Peter, my scholar, my novice magician. My pilgrim of great libraries. Forgive me. Grant me pardon.

“I was so hungered. I had hungered for so long. I fed poorly. I fed too deeply. I drank up all the sorrow and loneliness of the moment, and left none behind. Without the light of the moment you no longer carry the memory. Forgive me my clumsiness. I will not injure you thus again.”

He planted a kiss upon the center of Peter’s chest.

Then he whispered “Until you ask me to.”

Peter wasn’t sure what that meant, and wasn’t sure he was ready to. So he did what he knew how to do. He held on. 

He didn’t speak anymore. He held on until he fell asleep.

When he woke he was cold and achy and laying on the floor. He crawled up into his bed and under the covers and tried to tell himself it was all a dream. He hadn’t _really_ spent the night in the arms of a demon. A creature made of shadows who could be sent out to kill people. 

A creature who fed on the "light" from his brain and took away the memory of his only friend in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me on Tumblr:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thestarkerisobvious
> 
> Come by my shadows-are-many castle.  
> \-----------------------------------------------
> 
> HEY THERE CASTLE-VISITOR YOU KNOW YOU CAN'T LEAVE ANOTHER KUDO so leave a comment to let me know you were here!
> 
> Comments make the castle a less-lonely place!!


	4. The Author Of All Your Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This lovely art is by none other than the incomparable von_gelmini. 
> 
> Please enjoy my snugglefic.

**The Author Of All Your Misery**

The next night he was back on the floor, of course. Tony spoke to him from the blackness underneath the bed and soon was emerging from the darkness like an inkblack cloud. Peter steadfastly closed his eyes until he looked like Tony again, and then Tony was beside him on the floor, clutching Peter’s arm with both hands like a drowning man and sucking vigorously at the veins on his wrist.

From there they crept into Peter’s bed, moving under the covers and keeping their foreheads together, whispering. Peter lay on Tony’s left, leaving his right arm lying between them to give Tony better access to the ring finger on his left hand. Sometimes Tony sucked the last two fingers into his mouth, sometimes he only suckled at the fingertip. It gave Peter a very strange feeling, but he was getting used to it. 

"Are you really a demon?" Peter asked when he was brave enough.

Tony looked into his eyes for a moment before he answered. “’Spheres’ are now called ‘stars’ and ‘planets.’ The ‘sun’ is now called ‘star’. The college is now called “High School.” I do not yet know what I am called now.

“My novice magician,” he said gently, stroking Peter’s lips with the tips of his fingers. “You have yet to tell me.”

“I _told_ you I am not a magician.”

Tony smiled wryly. “You also told me of the alchemy you used to compel your make-seem volcano to erupt for a scholar’s prize, but lost the prize because your volcano erupted _too_ violently and created a catastrophe…”

“That was not… that was just science… that was so embarrassing. You can drink _all_ of that embarrassment. I don’t want to remember it.”

Peter turned in Tony’s arms, pressing his back to Tony’s chest, and was silent for a moment, thinking. Tony’s hand played idly with the sleeve of Peter’s pajamas, sometimes slipping beneath it, and did not speak

Peter had spent the day searching his memories, and then his journal, for the story Tony had told of a classmate named Wager. Peter knew _one_ boy named Martin Wagner, but he was one year older and never really talked to Peter. And Peter couldn’t remember the last time he was told he couldn’t make a long distance phone call was too expensive – he was allowed one half-hour phone call a month to Ned as part of his chore money.

But in his pile of letters to and from Ned he found it. He spent hours rereading the letters that Ned had written to him, and the copies of letters he had written to Ned. And there it was. Buried in the reports of the students at Devil’s Hollow High, including every student in Peter’s grade (there weren’t many. Ned was fascinated at the idea of knowing the name of EVERY student in your grade.) A description of Martin Wagner was there too, even though he was in a grade above. The memories were there – the memories that no longer resided in Peter’s brain.

Martin, the older boy who had been to Peter’s favorite museum in New York City and brought the postcard he had bought there for Peter to see.

Martin, who was in the 4H but knew plenty of science when it came to animal husbandry, and thus just enough about harmful pesticides to hold a decent conversation.

Martin who “said crude things about girls” but also was good for a lengthy conversation/argument about what MIGHT happen in the last Star Wars movie, with some well-reasoned arguments about why Darth Vader COULDN'T have been Luke's father.

Peter pieced the rest together from what little facts stood out in his memory. Martin was coming over to spend the night. Peter was excited because he hadn’t had a sleepover since New York City. The phone ringing and Uncle Ben being told that Martin wasn’t coming, Martin’s father giving the flimsiest of excuses. Uncle Ben swearing and stomping (a horror in itself, Uncle Ben rarely swore) and ranting about the ignorant, superstitious people of the town. “They really give credit to those tall tales about Evan Post and that witch nonsense? We live in a _farmhouse_ , not a ghost story.”

Peter, slipping in quietly (timid because there were raised voices in that room, he was always timid around raised voices) and meekly asking if he could just call Ned on the phone instead, but being told that wasn’t possible. “You know long distance is too damn expensive.”

Had Peter cried? Had he talked back, or actually raised his voice? Had he scolded Ben and May for moving him away from New York City, away from all his friends (and all the decent libraries!) and a school with an actual science club? Away to a notorious haunted-house that made him a pariah at school? 

Had the damn broke? Had he actually yelled at them, finally after bottling up his feelings in silence for so long? Something must have happened, because he was sent to his room so very rarely. He had thrown himself on the floor by the bed and cried, he remembered that. He remembered it, because he remembered the Thing That Lived Under The Bed had come and licked away his tears.

It was too alarming to watch as it emerged from under the bed, so Peter had closed his eyes. The tongue that licked his face clean was small and sandpapery, and Peter quickly concluded that one of the cats had actually come inside and hidden under his bed with Tony. A cat that smelled of burned incense and earth.

He remembered that cat-tongue against the pulse in his wrist, too, although he couldn’t remember putting his entire hand under the bed. It licked against his wrist for so long, he remembered, waking up and falling asleep again while he lay on the floor. May had found him the next day, asleep with one hand under the bed.

 _That_ much he remembered. _That_ much was clear. What came before? was impossible to tell. Each memory felt like something pretend, like a book he had read a long time ago and never really believed. Tony claimed he had been punished by being “sent to his room” which meant he must have said _something_ wrong to his Aunt and Uncle, but he couldn’t tell what was memory and what was imagination. He didn’t remember a single conversation with Martin. 

Tony had taken it all.

“I am the author of all your misery,” Tony murmured, combing his long fingers through Peter’s hair.

“No, not really,” Peter assured him, thinking of all the reasons he had been so miserable since moving from New York City to Devil’s Hollow. It wasn’t Tony’s fault Peter read so fast, or that the library in this town was so small, or that the librarian was so hateful. It wasn’t his fault Peter only wanted to talk about theoretical physics or science fiction or environmentalism and now lived in a town where neither seemed to matter. It wasn’t Tony’s fault the boys at school wanted nothing to do with him, any more than it was Peter’s fault he didn’t know a lot of dirty jokes and didn’t enjoy passing around stolen Playboys behind the school.

Tony propped himself up on one elbow and began stroking Peter’s face with gentle fingertips.

“Your schoolmates shun you because of me.”

“No, they do that because they think I live in a haunted house.”

“You _do_ live in a haunted house, Peter. _I am haunting it_. I am the author of your sorrows.”

“So… it’s true? But… are you a ghost?” Peter said, turning around again. He rested one hand on Tony’s forearm, feeling the muscle through the fabric of his billowy white shirt. It seemed very thin, certainly it was thinner than Peter’s arm, but it was thicker than it had been the night before, in the dream. In the dream, there had been nothing but skin and bone.

“Are you dead?”

“I am not dead,” Tony answered, caressing Peter’s arms as well. “I do not die. I sleep. I can sleep for a very long time.” 

“You’re not Evan Post?”

“Evan Post _is_ dead.”

“Was he a witch?”

Tony chucked, as if Peter had told a joke.

“What was he?”

“He was a nothing,” Tony said as he stroked a lock of Peter’s hair behind one ear, then stroked it again to keep it in place. They lay very close together, moving forehead to forehead as he spoke. Sometimes Peter reached out to stroke Tony’s chin, running his fingertips against the short-cropped beard.

He still wasn’t brave enough to do more.

“The Post brothers had been apprentices of low rank in an order that has no name. That order had stolen books from another order, and the brothers brought those books to the New World. Ezra Post married the daughter of a member of the Order of The Last Book of Cyprian. When he died the Post clan inherited the Books of Cyprian and the _Thesouro_.”

“Is that… a thesaurus? A very important thesaurus?” Peter interrupted. He _loved_ thesauruses almost as much as he loved science textbooks. He imagined an ancient thesaurus so important it could be inherited, and was a little disappointed to learn it was just a spellbook. 

“The _Thesouro de Feiticeiro,_ a very treasured grimoire. But family tradition ruled that only the women would learn Portuguese in honor of Beatrice Aviz Post. The Post men were only taught German and Latin. But Evan post never learned German. There was one book that Evan kept in his room. Of _that_ book, Evan could only read the English. 

"The Patriarch of the Post clan had summoned me to the new world to serve the family. I was tasked to protect the animals. To drive away the snakes. To take messages to the city when it was called New Amsterdam. To protect the women. I was tasked with many so many things. But it is difficult to recall. I was sent into the ground to sleep for long periods of time. “

“Wait, there are books about you? Where are they?”

“Hector Post commanded his youngest son to burn the books upon his own death. The ashes were drowned in the lake. The staff that he said did give the Patriarch power, he bade me drown in the lake. I cannot retrieve it. I am forbidden.”

“Is it true, the story of the dead pigs?”

Tony gave a crooked smile. “Evan Post despised his neighbors. Sent me to destroy their swine. I was to devour them. I was hungry enough of the first night. And on the second. But on the third I was too sated and could eat no more. Too many carcasses. I could not consume the bodies. I _tried_ to tell him. He would never listen.”

Peter swallowed hard and thought carefully before asking the next question.

“Tony, did… did Mr. Post task to you to kill his neighbors?”

Tony’s eyes had drifted closed as he told the story of the swine, but they opened slowly when Peter whispered his question.

Tony sat up a little on his elbow, reached out and combed his fingers through Peter’s hair again, then ran one firm hand down Peter’s spine until it rested in the small of his back. He used that hand to move Peter forward slightly, bringing their mouths close together.

“Why do you ask me questions that vex you?”

“Did you?”

“Should I answer you, and bring you pain?”

“Does that mean you did?”

Gently Tony brought the fingers of Peter’s left hand to his mouth and kissed the tips softly, as if kissing them goodbye. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again.

Then he nodded.

“How many?” Peter asked, his voice breaking.

“Eight. Nine. Maybe a dozen. I do not recall. Oh sweet one…”

Tony reached for him as Peter pulled away, but then let go. As Peter curled into a tight ball under the sheets Tony only stroked Peter’s shoulder blade with his knuckles and waited.

“How?” Peter managed through his tears. He had decided when they first moved to the house that Evan Post had secretly been a good person after all. People were jealous of Evan Post, just as the kids were jealous of Peter because he only got A’s. People didn’t like Evan Post because he liked being by himself, just like Peter liked being by himself. Evan Post as a _good_ guy, just a very lucky many who also liked living all alone. The prettiest parts of the house had been built by Evan Post, or so they had been told, including the beautiful massive dining room table that Aunt May loved so much, and the chest of drawers in her room. Evan Post had built the large empty barn where Peter had spent so much time reading and watching the barn owls. The dead man had become like an invisible friend in Peter’s imagination. He didn’t want to know that his invisible friend had been a murderer. 

“And now I am the author of more pain,” Tony whispered, leaning over to kiss Peter on the shoulder. “Please ask me no more.”

“Just tell me.”

As Tony told the story Peter couldn’t help himself. He missed Tony’s arms the moment he left them. Slowly he pushed himself back, inch by inch, until he was back in Tony’s embrace again. He pulled Tony’s arms around him and played with the long, pail, tapered fingers as the man spoke. 

“Evan Post despised other people. _All_ people. He left his home so rarely. When he went into the village he was filled with hate and loathing and mortal terror. He would return here and I would drink it all from him. Then he would forget all his fear of people and behold! Off he would venture into the village again! More for me to feast upon.

“But more than once he would remember his hatred for his fellow man and send me out to slay them. Some had scorned him, others had mocked him. Some simply enraged him because they insisted on engaging him in conversation. One old biddie and merely asked him when he would marry. He despised all humankind. I was sent into their beds so that they would not rise again.”

Peter scrubbed the tears away from his face. He knew it was ridiculous to mourn these people who would have been long-dead anyway. Aunt May had explained what had happened in Devil’s Hollow when Evan Post had lived there. But World War 1 had just ended, and many people died in their homes, especially in the winter. It was just that way back then.

“I have caused you so many sorrows. Let me take them from you, I can make you forget.” Tony said, nuzzling his ear. He reached for Peter’s arm, pulling Peter’s wrist to his mouth, but Peter snatched it away.

“ _No_. No, I’m _not_ going to forget this. It’s important that I remember this. It’s important to remember that it’s wrong. It’s _wrong_ to kill people, Tony. You can _never_ do it again.”

“Very well,” Tony said calmly. He did not react to Peter’s sudden movement, nor the order Peter had hissed at him. He settled his head back against the pillow and held Peter close. He didn’t seem particularly concerned at all.

“Did Ev… did Mr. Post make you do other bad things?”

“My tender-hearted scholar. He bade me kill the venomous snakes. I devoured them by the score, convinced those I could not eat to dwell in other places. There were wolves in those days, and bears, though very few. I was tasked to guard the animals. Will you weep for the wolves and the serpents, too, sweet one?

“I’ll try not to. Did Mr. Post know you were a demon?”

“The books he burned called me a demon. Although his grandfather’s brother insisted I was a pagan god. I enjoyed him. The neighbors, when there were neighbors, called me Fae. They left me milk and bread at the crossroads on their holy days. Evan’s grandmother called me the muse. In New Amsterdam there were still natives at times, the Delaware, the Mohawk. They called me Wendigo, when I was still allowed to consume the deer of the forest. But when the natives told stories of me, I was confined to the farm.” 

“Are you still keeping the rattlesnakes away?”

“I have not been tasked to in some time. I convinced many generations of snakes to dwell elsewhere. It seems they still remember. Would you like them to return? They are quite tasty.”

“No thanks. Did you poison the wells?”

“I was never tasked to. But I could tell him pure water from ill. I protected the buildings from lightening. I built many things for him. He would build furniture but grow tired of it, and I was tasked to finish it. He enjoyed building large things, I was left with the fine work. Most often I was tasked to bring him news from the village so he need not venture there. 

“I protected the land, the lake and the forest beyond it. I was given that task by his grandfather. 

“But as the years passed he created so very little. Enjoyed very little. There was so little to eat. When I begged him to feed me he sent me into the forest to eat, or else cast me into the ground until he needed me again. He lived for one hundred and twenty years. Then when he died he burned his books and tried to cast me out.” 

Tony chuckled. “But _how does he cast_ without his spellbook? His foolishness was always his undoing. He tried to banish me back into the infernal realms, but why should I return there? I have dwelt in the realms of men for so long. I fought him. He was unskilled. He tried cast me into darkness, and so I sought out the darkness under his childhood bed. He had no power to cast me further. I thought I had bested him.

“But then he was gone, and no one else came. There was nothing to eat. I could not consume his body, I had been forbidden. No other magicians inherited me. I was all alone. I could not cast _myself_ back to the infernal realms, and I was too weak to leave the house. Soon I was too weak to leave the darkness under the bed. I was trapped.

“Others came. I made them fear. I drank their fear. But I could not touch them, so I could not take it all, not enough to make them forget what made them afraid. They would become too afraid, and then I would be left alone again. I was greedy. Time and time again it happened. Unable to leave from under the bed I could not even venture into the forest to eat, only consume what poor fair found its way into the house. I feared I would be trapped forever.

“But Evan Post left a house that men would covet for generations. Like a gingerbread house, drawing in little children for the witch to consume,” he said with a grin, kissing the side of Peter’s face. “Wealthy men came to inspect it, I fed from their dreams of a quiet life of contemplation. Women would come to praise the art of the wainscoting, the furniture. I fed from their admiration. Workers would come, I would frighten them, then feed from their fear. Wealthy families came to dwell here. They were happy. I could have fed from their happiness and left them plenty to spare. They had animals, I could have found enough strength to creep out on stormy nights and feed from them. But I had feasted on fear for far too long. I wanted nothing else. I was so greedy. I made them fear. Frightening sounds, frightening words, frightening dreams. So much fear to consume. Then frightening images as well! So much horror, so much terror to feast upon. I made them fear too much. Too many feasts. They became too afraid, and so they left me. My greed was my undoing. I was left alone. I cannot say for how long. I have forgotten so much. 

“Then you came.”

He used one firm hand to pull at Peter’s arm until Peter turned in his embrace. Tony tilted Peter’s chin up with one crooked finger and brought their mouths close, and Peter found himself unable to look away from those dark eyes.

“You came, and I thought you would surely starve me. _You had no fear_. But you had a light the which I had not tasted since I was summoned to New Amsterdam. Not since Simeon the Elder have I tasted so many _questions_. My library-pilgrim. My novice magician. My Master Doctor.”

“I told you, Tony,” Peter whispered, suddenly nervous with Tony’s mouth so close to his own. “I’m don’t have a Masters OR a Doctorate. I’m still in high school.” 

“You know more now about the heaven above than any Master Doctor I ever served. _My scholar_.”

“Tony…” Peter’s mouth had gone completely dry, but the question burning in his brain was too big to ignore, so he dared himself to ask it out loud.

“Did you… drink my tears that night?”

“Of course, it is a form of your light.”

“And if you did drink by blood, literally, would that also be light?”

“No, that would be substance, and it would harm you. But the sweat that forms at your brow,” he said gently, kissing Peter’s forehead again. “If it were from fear or frustration, it would be light.”

“So… you’re saying that body fluids…”

He blushed and ducked his head. Turned out he wasn’t brave enough to ask the question after all.

Tender tapered fingers lifted his chin and Tony leaned in to press their lips together, lapping gently into Peter’s mouth with the tip of his tongue.

He pulled away for a moment and Peter looked up into his face. Shyly, he smiled. Tony smiled as well and repeated the action. Peter stayed very still and let it happen, with one hand firmly gripping Tony’s shoulder, keeping him in place. 

Finally the action became too wet and Peter had to pull away, giggling as he scrubbed his face dry with his sleeves. “Eww… that was worse than sucking on my fingers.”

Tony grinned and pulled him closer, holding him in strong arms until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me on Tumblr:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thestarkerisobvious
> 
> Are you the ghost of Evan Post? If not, come on over and tell me who you ARE.  
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Evan Post couldn't get along with his neighbors, and YOU can't leave another kudo, so leave a comment!


	5. Masters.  Rivals.  Lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in the 4th century fad of Stylite-ism, I encourage you to read about them.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stylite
> 
> Imagine constantly trying to get away from crowds, so much so that you decide to live out your life on top of a pillar. Only to have crowds gather around you in masses so see you live your solitary life.
> 
> \-----
> 
> If you don't have it on your calendar, Walpurgisnaught is April 30th.

_**St. Simeon the Elder, Stylite, vexed by a demon** _

_**\-----------------------** _

**Masters. Rivals. Lovers.**

Bit by bit Peter pieced it together, from the stories he heard while nestled in Tony’s arms to the multiple pilgrimages to libraries in the long Spring and Summer when Tony was gone. 

Simeon the Elder was the only name Tony produced that appeared in any history books, and was said to have died on September 2nd, 459 AD, although Tony claimed to have “vexed” him for more than a decade. But his stories of Bishop Berthwald, that had tasked him to do it, made it sound like he had served in the “realm of men” for decades, maybe even a century, before that. Tony’s sense of time made it difficult to calculate.

It was in the monastery that the books existed to “conjure” him to the realm of men, although sometimes he described them as scrolls. Certainly they would have been copied into books by the second century, Peter’s research said. 

It was hard to say what surprised Peter the most, that it was a monastery full of Christian monks that had summoned the demons to earth in the first place, or the fact that Tony’s main job had been to watch over the henhouse.

“But there were many of us then, so many. We had different tasks. All of us were conjured to protect the monastery against raiders, but when the walls were finished there was little need for that. Some of us built bridges, others great towers. Many spread themselves over the oceans to bring back news of oncoming storms. Some could travel over borders and spy in the courts of kings…”

But what kings, and what borders Peter could never determine, nor could he find the name of the monastery that Tony spoke of. Whatever names he knew were not the names that were recorded in history. 

“We were so strong then, we were so well-fed. Entire fields of cattle were dedicated to our consumption, and the bodies of apostates and heretics and enemies. And we feasted upon the vapors from the infernal regions from which we came,” Tony had explained one night as he held Peter in his arms, Peter’s back pressed against Tony’s chest. Peter had no idea what “vapors from the infernal region” tasted like, but he remembered how Tony’s arms had tightened and his mouth began licking and kissing against Peter’s shoulder, neck, and ear. Whatever  _ that _ kind of feeding was, it made Tony hungry just thinking about it.

“Many times a year. Walpurgisnacht, All Hallows Eve, the night before the Christ's mass. That magic is  _ long _ lost, it was lost before the monastery fell. But it was  _ good _ . Many spirits still roam the earth at All Hallows Eve, seeking someone who knows the ritual of the Great Feast. I was so strong then. I took the form of a human and lived feigned that way for years, even in summer months, made strong with that power. Brother Herman disguised me as an acolyte and kept me in his monk’s cell for years.”

“To do what?”

“To be his lover.”

Peter was glad he was facing away from Tony then, he didn’t want the man to see his face just then.

“How did you escape? From Brother Herman?”

“I did not escape. I did not wish to escape. Simeon the Elder had broken with the brotherhood and left the monastery, and I was summoned to find him. When I reported he had become a stylite with dozens of disciples, the Bishop was furious. I was sent to vex him. I lived at his side for nearly a dozen years…”

“Wait. Is  _ that _ how he lived on a pillar for so long? With magic?”

“No. People. The people provided him with everything he needed. They came from miles around to see him. They would have brought him anything, provided him anything. My poor sorrowful scholar. He joined the monastery because he craved solitude. He left the monastery because he craved solitude. He climbed to the top of the pillar certain he had found solitude – and an entire village worth of people formed around the pillar to celebrate his solitude. How he suffered.”

This was the first time, Peter discovered, that Tony had learned the trick of causing an emotion in a human, then feeding off the emotion. He would frighten Simeon with terrifying images, then feed upon the fear. Or give him erotic dreams and feed upon the morning guilt. (“Oh he  _ loved _ it when I played the shy novice, craving touch but not knowing how to ask for, how he loved  _ teaching _ me the art of touch, over and over and over again,” Tony murmured, his lips brushing against Peter’s neck. Peter pretended not to notice.) Or drain the man of his fear of large crowds so much that he would  _ forget _ he feared large crowds, only to descend into the village that had grown up around his pillar, be filled with hatred and fear, and then ascend the pillar to feed Tony once again.

“For twelve years you did this?”

“I cared for him so. Drank the pain and diseases from his body and took away his desires to hurt himself. He fed me in questions, so many questions. We spoke, we disputed, we discussed for  _ hours _ under the night sky. Berthwald desired him to return. Return to Berthwald’s monastery, return to Berthwald’s bed. I did not wish him to go. The brotherhood  _ despised _ his constant questions. I loved them.”

“Did you… disobey the Bishop?”

“I could not disobey; Berthwald’s magics were too strong. But he  _ never _ directed me to  _ convince _ Simeon to return to the monastery, only vex him until he returned. I only did what I was told.

“I convinced him to throw himself from the pillar, this I was tasked to do. But I was not tasked to  _ let him fall _ . I protected him, only let him break a few bones. Feasted on his pain. Nursed him back to health. For so long we lived this way,” Tony said lovingly. Peter wasn’t sure if he was jealous or horrified.

“Until the Bishop made you kill him? That’s just terrible!”

“I took him gently. Took all the light from his mind, so that he would not suffer. I was his beloved. But he was the beloved of Berthwald, and Berthwald could not live without him. When I returned to report of his death the bishop fell into a fit of grieving. He cast me into the ground. And there I stayed. The next time I was summoned it was to the shores of the new world, and I was the servant of Nehemiah Post. 

“But that’s so wrong… he was in love with Simeon, and he made you kill him, and then punished you for killing him.”

Tony shrugged his shoulders. It was strange, feeling that gesture as Tony held him close. He had felt it often. Tony seemed to take every decision the monks at the monastery made as a matter of course.

“If only he had stayed with the order until Michaelmass of that year he left, of was the year after? Each of us were forbidden to harm any of the monks that dwelled within the monastery. That was powerful magic, bindings of that caliber were almost impossible to break. It was a common thing among us, for the monks to send us out to kill other monks. To creep into the beds of rival lovers, or beloveds that had fled their lover. If a spirit was fed and powerful, we could consume the entire body, making it disappear right under the blankets before the sun rose. Disappear leaving only ash behind.

“It need not be painful,” Tony said, when Peter shuttered in his arms. “If they did not wish their beloved to  _ suffer _ . First you must consume the light from their brainpan,” he said tenderly, combing his finger’s through Peter’s hair. “Then the light from their organs, one at a time,” he put his hand over Peter’s heart, then ran in slowly downward. “Unless you were told to make them suffer. Then you did it in reverse…” 

“Stop,” Peter snapped, and Tony removed his hand from where it was caressing over his stomach, and moving lower. 

Of course, he had wanted Tony to stop  _ talking _ , not touching him…

But there was no way to tell him that, so they just stopped talking altogether. It was a tactic Peter took many times that winter. When things became too complicated, he just closed his eyes and went to sleep, letting Tony feed again. The feedings had to happen nightly and lasted for hours. Tony said it was because Peter wouldn’t let him prey on the animals that lived nearby. 

But it was winter, and mostly the only animals Tony asked for were the cats and dogs.

That was why Peter only allowed Tony to take them back to the dream of the castle a few more times. Tony couldn’t really feed there anyway. When they were there they spent most of the time exploring the castle hand in hand, Peter telling Tony every detail of the book  Dracula , Tony describing the monastery he had lived in and the similarities of architecture. But they always wound up back in the ornate bedroom, and Peter wasn’t entirely comfortable there. There always seemed to be voices there, echoing in the other rooms, solemnly intoning things Peter didn’t want to hear. Besides, Tony always seemed to want  _ something  _ there, something Peter didn’t understand and was afraid to ask.

Besides, Peter reasoned by daylight, why did they have to meet in dreams at all now? They spoke just as easily awake as asleep. (And that, secretly, was the reason he didn’t allow Tony to take him there anymore. Things had changed the night they spoke in the castle, changed drastically. When Peter went to sleep Tony could barely speak in sentences of three words, when he woke up Tony was speaking in paragraphs. All because of what they had done in the dream. If they did something else in the dream, what else would change?)

It had been February 2 nd when Tony was strong enough to talk to Peter coherently in his dreams.  In very short order winter began fading away and longer days made Tony weaker. Night after night he would cling to Peter, sometimes too hungry to speak, feeding from his wrist or his fingers for endless hours. Tony would appear to him shirtless, and Peter would wear his short-sleeve pajamas wrapping his arms around Tony’s frail body, giving him all the skin-to-skin comfort he could manage. (Peter wanted to take off his own shirt. Every night he promised himself he would, but when Tony arrived he always chickened out.) Soon they realized there was no helping it, Tony would have to go back to darkness to sleep until the fall. 

“I should have been yours until Walpurgisnacht,” he moaned. “As you grow older you will be stronger. As you grow stronger, I will grow stronger. Read the books that make you cry, the ones that make you laugh, the ones that make you angry. You must feed me so much when I return to you. I’ll grow strong. I’ll stay.”

Those were the nights that Peter found himself holding Tony and not the other way around. Stroking his hair and his face and kissing his forehead. Squeezing him tight, tangling their legs together, holding him until his arms ached. Letting Tony lap his tongue into his mouth for as long as he wanted. Promising Tony, over and over, that he would eat a lot and exercise constantly, making himself strong for when Tony finally returned. “And I’ll read a lot, I’ll read so much, lots and lots of books to make me sad,” he promised. “And books about the endangered species list, and acid rain, they make me so angry. I’ll read them all, I promise.”

“Will you cry for me?” Tony whispered. It was almost April, and his voice was becoming very faint. He licked a long wet stripe up Peter’s cheek and over his eye. They both grinned at the joke. They had both agreed that, when Tony was licking his face, crying was impossible.

“I’ll try,” Peter whispered against Tony’s mouth, parted his lips willingly when Tony’s tongue sought him out.

It was difficult, in those moments, to remember that Tony wasn’t  _ really _ kissing him, but merely feeding.

Especially when Tony’s hand cupped his face with gentle tapered fingers, or combed those fingers through his hair.

Especially when Tony held him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some AO3 authors do not care for constructive criticism. Constructive criticism must be requested.
> 
> I HOWEVER FEED ON IT THE WAY A DEMON FEEDS ON LIGHT so please, PLEASE, feed me your questions, your confusion, and your constructive crit -- I am constantly trying to improve my work.
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------
> 
> HEY THERE! YOU KNOW YOU CAN'T LEAVE ANOTHER KUDO so leave a comment to let me know you were here!
> 
> Unlike Simeon the Elder, I DO like to hear from people!

**Author's Note:**

> This is me on Tumblr:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thestarkerisobvious
> 
> Come by and feed on my light.


End file.
